


All I Have

by cannibalisticshadows



Series: Of Old Gods and Peasants [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Cervitaur Belle, Impregnation, Lactation, Other, Pagan Gods, Spinner Rumplestiltskin, centaur/human relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalisticshadows/pseuds/cannibalisticshadows
Summary: Rumpelstiltskin was helpless as he watched the men take his boy away to the front lines. Desolate and unable to go on with Baelfire gone, he goes into the forbidden forest and prays at an altar of the Old Gods. Lord help him, for one has answered.But can he pay her price?
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: Of Old Gods and Peasants [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600198
Comments: 15
Kudos: 39





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> i've been plagued with the big sad lately and this idea's been in my head a while so i decided to just roll with it.
> 
> it's really weird.

He was dead.

Dead inside.

Rumpelstiltskin had no reason to go on with his miserable existence; no life, no breath, no motivation to even spin. It was his one thing he could do for hours on end and never get tired. It was soothing and repetitive, his hands always eager to make his yarn to sell in market, hoping he could scratch together enough coin to give Bae a proper meal. And, on good days, give the lad a treat. 

But now he had none of that. 

The quivering man grips the well-worn wood of his staff, wobbling with each step as he treks through the thick forest. Leaves crunched under his thin shoes--slippers, really--and as he takes every step, his shaggy hair blocks his view of all the stark colors of winter. It was cold, very cold, and Rumpelstiltskin felt as if at any moment he might fall under the ever so soft snowfall and collapse for good right then and there. 

It was forbidden for the village folk to venture too far here. Many got lost, attacked by wild animals, ate something that was poisonous. Several families had tried to run away into the forest to escape the ogre wars, and those that were found were publicly punished and humiliated for cowardness and unlawfulness. Some just wandered too far and were never heard from again. He had walked for so long he had forgotten how to get back; the trail had long since ended. He had one last sliver of hope of any kind left; it was lowly and foolish, but what else could he do? Even if he didn’t make it, he would likely die out here. 

So be it. He had nothing left...  
_______

He finally found the altar. Right were that old beggar had said. _Go west, toward the setting sun. I promise you will find it._ It seemed like pisspoor directions, but nonetheless he had found it.

His first impression was that it was tall. Rumpelstiltskin wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this looked more like a very tall tombstone more than anything. It seemed to loom over him, looking almost ominous in its mysteriousness. There was a low bench of some kind before it, and he imagined offering once were placed there. Shakily he bends down to sweep away debris and snow that had coated it, unsure of what really to do. He had brought nothing to offer besides his own wretched pain. 

The priests wouldn’t look at him so much as give consolation to the poor cowardly spinner, and he had no money or goods worth a coin to send to Baelfire to aid him in some way. Letters were forbidden, and though no knight has come to deposit his boy’s body, there was no way of knowing if Bae was well or not. 

The only thing Rumpelstiltskin could do, besides put himself out of his own misery, was pray.

There were unfamiliar markings on the altar, and carved images both lovely and too crude to decipher. But it was all so faded and while he could not read, he doubted anyone could tell what the words said. He assumed that it must be in the old tongue.

Rumpelstiltskin’s staff was laid beside him, and he winced as he tried to kneel before the stone structure. He didn’t believe in this kind of pagan practice. He didn’t believe in religion much at all, with all the odds stacked against him. It was witchcraft, the villagers accused, and this was yet another reason why it was prohibited for people to venture this far into the forest. 

His hands, callused and shaky, though nimble from years of his trade, clasp together with uncertainty still lingering in his heart. A large part of him just said to get up and find the red forbidden berries, that would make him go to sleep and never wake up, because this was absolute nonsense. This was just a stone structure, made by people who thought praying to the goddamn _flowers_ was normal. 

But a tiny little voice screamed that if this worked, if he could somehow bargain for protection for his boy, if not bring him home, than anything was worth it.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” he stutters out, gulping and hating the cold. “I just want to ask for help. My boy--my son--” He sniffles, and angrily wipes his face when he realizes he’s crying, a teardrop or two splattering onto the stone bench.

This felt idiotic; he was speaking to a _rock._

“Baelfire. He’s all I have,” Rumpelstiltskin declares with more vigor, that pride he felt when the fact was said. Yes, _his_ son. His beautiful and brave son, who looked so accepting of his fate when the men came to take him away. The spinner straightens up a little. His cloak and rags feel so very thin and useless against the cold, but if he was being watched some how, he didn’t want to seem unworthy... “I’d give anything just to keep him safe. To bring him home… If anyone is listening, please, please look over my son. Anything… I’d give _anything..._ ”

“Anything?”

Rumpelstiltskin gasps and spins around so fast he feels faint, his crippled ankle crying out in pain as he stumbles backwards, nearly slamming himself against the stone altar as a second voice from behind answers him.

He had been alone when he came here, he was sure of it. But now he’s certainly not alone. 

There she was. A goddess, a nymph, a--

Oh dear. _Oh, **deer!**_

He cannot believe his eyes, as he did not believe anyone or anything was actually listening to him. If there was, it would be without his knowing. But for something to answer him? To show up and loom over him? He...

A woman stood just a foot away from him, having been standing behind him as he knelt before the altar. He’s not sure if he can call her a woman, though, besides her soft breasts clothed in a strange garment of golden silk cupping both mounds of modest sized flesh. His second impression is that she’s a giant.

Or at least the antlers make her appear giant.

The biggest rack of antlers he’s ever seen stood atop this woman’s head, looking so very soft with velvet yet so very terrifying with how sharp her prongs were. The stretched out with immeasurable degree, extraordinarily magnificent, but he had to guess they could have been as nearly as long as him. They were decorated in flowers and ivy, as if she had stepped out of a springtime wonderland, unaffected by the snowfall.

His eyes, flinting from her antlers to her breasts, betray him further by trailing down.

She wasn’t human past the waist-- _her slender, perfect, pale waist_. Her legs were long and thin, pale white and beige and ending off in little cloven hooves. He blinks, confused, and then the entity takes a step forward and he realizes she’s walking on four legs. 

She had the body of a deer. A fallow deer, softly spotted white. 

When she speaks again, he blanches because he knows he had been staring at her, outright oggling her like some dumb and deaf fool. 

“You said anything. Is that true?”

Her words sound like an angel’s voice. Her human features were _beautiful_ , and he felt like the low peasant he was as he cowarded before this _goddess_.

Without another moment of hesitation, he gets on his hands and knees and shakes like a leaf in the wind, and crawls like a worthless bug to her front legs, kissing one of her delicate little hooves. 

“My--goddess,” he stutters. How should he address her? As a royal? As a _god?_ “I--”

The slender limb he had all but slobbered on raised up in a very doe-like manner, pulling away from his advances. He glanced up at her face and saw she was looking down on him with dazzling blue eyes, squinting in confusion at him. 

Rumpelstiltskin tried to compose himself, scrambling backwards for the second time and cursing himself out. How dare he try to do that? Look at him, he was filthy and stank! And she was--she was heavenly. Perfect, and glowing with life. She smelled like roses and honey.

“It’s alright,” she says, voice so very soft and warming, and it fills his chest and makes him want to cry and curl up under her. The deity suddenly bends down, her legs tucked under her lower cervine body politely. This way, it’s almost like a normal woman is kneeling down in front of him, her bare arms opening to him. Something about her is so very calming, and as she nears its like he’s coming home. He doesn’t near her again, a whimper escaping him as the gorgeous being reaches out with a little feminine hand to touch the top of his head. “I won’t hurt you, my good man. Why have you come here? None of your kind venture here anymore.”

“I need--” he strains to speak, feeling horrible for so much as being next to her. “I need my boy to be safe. They took him away--he’s all I have--”

“Baelfire, you called him?”

“Y-Yes, my goddess.”

She blinks in confusion, and he feels terrified again because he knows he’s done something wrong again. His body shakes and he knows that if he were a young man again, uncrippled, he would get up and run away before this creature could curse him. Yet a tinkly laugh leaves her, and instantly he is swamped with the assurance she’s not going to smite him down. 

“Please, I’m no goddess. Though I have been called that before... But I can help you.”

A heaving sigh of relief and exultation leaves him, and the strain in his muscles suddenly go lax as he falls forward, burying his face near her folded front legs. Another dainty laugh leaves her, the hand on his hand stroking his disgusting hair. He hates how dizzy it makes him feel, how touch starved for affection he is. He should beg her not to dirty herself by touching him, but he cannot help but almost purr by her tenderness.

She says he can help him, help _Bae_. For that he feels as though he should offer himself as her eternal slave, happily willing to follow this creature till the ends of the earth, simply under the fact that she could keep his son safe. 

“I can look over your son. I just need to know where he is.”

“The duke--his men--they take all of the children to--”

“Shh,” she whispers, both of her hands on his head now, lifting him up to face her. He feels so very self-conscious being this close to a beautiful woman (half woman or not), but he meets her eyes. They were so very blue. He has to fight his cowardness and the need to look away and stare at the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not be. What do they call you?”

“R-Rumpelstiltskin, my lady.”

“That’s quite the mouthful. May I call you Rumple? You are quite cute.”

Cute? He must be dreaming now. Rumpelstiltskin feels himself wilt, thinking he’ll wake up back in his bed alone and starving to death. “You can call me anything…” He admits, looking away. Her fingers stroke his dirtied cheeks, and he shivers under her touch. His stubble makes her touches scrape his facial hair, and it adds to the strange yet intoxicating event.

“I need to ask you something, however.”

“Anything.”

“You see, Rumple, I came because you sound so very selfless. You came all this way to pray for aid for your son. It’s admirable. You must be a wonderful father. Do you have a wife? Is the mother of your son around?”

“No,” he says, unsure where she’s going with this. Suddenly the thought comes to him; what if she asks for his son as a sacrifice? He shakes again. No, no she can’t have Baelfire--

“Rumple,” the heavenly creature sings his name, and he raises his gaze back up to hers. “Hush, now. I do not ask for much. I have been alone for a very long time, and I do not wish to be anymore. All I ask for is your seed.”

“I’m sorry?” He doesn’t even try to comprehend what she’s asking for, unsure what she’s trying to get at. Certainly, Rumpelstiltskin wants to give her anything she asks, but what did she mean by--

“I want a child of my own, Rumpelstiltskin.”


	2. Part II

Now he’s sure that he’s dreaming. 

The loss of his son had been too great for his feeble mind. He’d fallen ill and any moment now he’d wake up from this strange, feverish dream, or perhaps not even that; maybe he’ll wake up in a wooden box with the undertaker throwing dirt over him. Buried alive, he shivers at the nightmarish thought. Or maybe he’d truly come out here, but fell and hit his head on a rock. That was believable. He fell regularly even on smooth ground.

“I wish to be a mother,” the ethereal creature explained as he sat there staring at her like an incompetent fool once more. “I have been alone many, many years, Rumpelstiltskin. I am the only one left of my kind. While I am not focused on that, it’s my... design that desires it so.” A pair of soft, cervine ears where human ears should be wilt down, and her blue eyes downcast to her chest. She’s bare for all but the golden silk cupping her breasts, held together by twine or twigs—yet she seems unaffected by the cold, which for a moment Rumpelstiltskin envies. If this is some kind of dream, why can he feel the cold seeping into his knees as he kneels before this half-woman, and his ankle smarting something terrible.

“I don’t... I...” He was lonely. He knew it, and while Baelfire was more than he deserved and worth all the riches in the world, he found himself missing Millah several times, or at least the position she held. Someone to hold and call his own, to great after every God awful day at market, to curl up against at night... If this was a dream, why shouldn’t he indulge? But she’s... all _doe_ down there. To be honest, in his more lonely craving of company, he’s thought of the shepherd’s dirty tales of looking for comfort with their own sheep. It wasn’t about sex, he thought, but to chase that brief burst of pleasure and warmth...

“I understand,” the woman says, and suddenly reaches out to wrap her arms around him, and his eyes nearly roll up into his skull. When was the last time he had been touched like this? He was so touched starved it made him dizzy with want, to curl up against her and sob and kiss and hold. He shivers and against his own will he presses against her chest, feeling how very soft her skin is. It’s glorious. “I am more than willing to be a protector for your son and see him come home safely, but I am in need as well. I want to be a mother.”

“You keep saying that,” he rasps, his mind going places he knows is forbidden. But what else could she be speaking of? He said that he had no wife, and no one would dare to desire him for...! 

“Your seed,” she presses, and one of her arms unfurl from him. He whimpers at the loss, but a gasp of shock replaces it quickly after as her hand grasps his and takes it to her left breast, making him cup her in the palm of his hand. Oh, Lord, this must be a dream. He wants to cry at how lovely it feels, and while all of this is so incredible and impossible to believe, he wishes to relish whatever his weak, pitiful mind is conjuring. “Feel me—I haven’t cared for a babe in so long... it’s my nature, you see. What I’m meant for.”

Before he can question her further, his hand giving her ever so slight a squeeze of appreciation, he feels something wet meet his palm. Bewildered, he looks down and sees liquid staining her silk top, right where her nipples—Oh fuck. “You’re—“

“Yes. Please,” without another moment of hesitation she stands up, her long pale cervine legs hoisting him up along with her. He can feel her body almost vibrating with some kind of unknown need, and her gentle, motherly gaze is morphing into something else. The kind of look Millah gave a few times in the early days of their marriage, when they retired to bed after a long work day.

Her hand reaches out and palms the front of his trousers, making him yip in surprise as he realizes he’s already interested. Very, very strange yet pleasant dream. For the first time his thoughts are not being dictated by Baelfire’s absents—he wants to believe her promise to look after his boy so bad he thinks he actually does. For the first time in years he feels a new kind of vigor, and thinks he may quake just like this goddess is right now, who’s palming him with a kind of clumsiness he’s unused to. 

Millah was the one to teach him on their wedding night. She taught him what felt good and—this feels good, and he can’t keep quiet as a moan is forced out of his throat. Confused, and unsure what she wants exactly, he reaches out and caresses and gently squeezes her waist, brushing his hands against her clothed breasts. 

Her ears go up and she looks almost surprised, and before he can think he’s done something wrong she smiles at him. It makes him feel as though he’s soaring. 

And suddenly he is. He gasps and stumbles forward a step, wrapping his arms tight around her waist as he feels his whole body go hot and it’s amazing and he’s flying and—

Guilt. And shame. As quickly as it came, Rumpelstiltskin gasps and takes a step back, horrified he’s just come in his pants like a boy. It’s been so long though—he never wanted to wake up but now he’s thinking this dream may be a nightmare.

“Oh,” she says, her ears bobbing up curiously as she eyes him past the waist. “Did you ejaculate? Is it in there?” Before he can speak—he’s still flushed with shame and panting for breath—she reaches out and pulls on the ties of his trousers, tugging them open and peaking inside. Oh fuck why does she look so innocent? With a helpless groan he feels himself twitch.

Suddenly his “partner” turns around, and he misses her already as he thinks she’s going to leave him here, deny protection for his boy—why isn’t he focused on his boy this is about him not him and his pathetic arse—

Only for her to show him her hart form, the short little tail flicking up and showing him a heart-shaped rear end, furry and soft and white and—if he thinks for a moment he can fantasize that this is a human woman bending over for him. He can see the tiniest little pink slit poking through her fur, a winking hole just above it. Oh great holy shit—

“Put it in me, please,” she asks so sweetly he would feel like the worst bastard of them all if he denied her, but his more logic side thinks he should wake up now because this is wrong, she’s part DEER—

His brows scrunched up, he tentatively reaches into his trousers and collects his thick spunk onto his finger tips. He’s shaking, he realizes, and reaches out to place one of his hands on her body. She arches her lower back, her body responding to his unlike anything he’s ever touched before. With his seed on his fingers, he prods her doe vulva. 

“Please.”

Gulping, he presses two fingers into her—she whimpers.

“Ah—! Are—are you—“ He apologists profusely, already prepping to yank his fingers out of the wondrously tight little hole. 

“It’s okay, just new,” she reassured, her haunches twitching like a young mare ready to bolt.

Gods above this is the most insane dream he’d ever had.

He tries to collect as much of his emission as he can to slid it into her. It’s very... strange. While he doesn’t exactly fancy having a go with the lower half of a hart, her human features are the most beautiful he’s ever had the pleasure of getting close to. And her vulva... it’s tight. Ridiculously tight and hot and soon it’s shiny and slick with him pressing his cream into her.

She’s so responsive to his fingers he thinks that maybe she likes this. Millah complained too much when he tried to service her. But this goddess is—she’s whimpering and suppressing little moans and pressing her haunches against him. Her slender legs are spasming and jittery. She’s so WET! He pauses a moment before he presses the palm of his hand against her, and to his amazement she rubs against him, her ears down and her breath rapid. Feeling both sick and blessed he’s doing this to her, he sticks his hand back into his trousers to collect more of his seed that’s stuck to the fabric and dripping down his leg. It’s such a strange act to try and push it into her.

“Ah,” she swoon, and her upper half suddenly goes down, and she’s kneeling on her front legs, her rear end up and trembling as she wriggles against his hand something desperate. Her back legs are visibly shaking—a surprised but pleased smile quirks on the corner of his mouth as his fingers and hand work her, rubbing her slippery entrance and quaking insides. She bucks and jerks and keens—her fur is so very soft and her tail is wiggling up in the air like a flag—

With a little cry, her insides clamp around his fingers, and his hand is sticky with his come and hers. 

He stares at her arching back, a strip of fur running down her spine, her skin so pale and perfect. He needs to watch his head, for her antlers are so very big.

To his surprise, he’s hard again. He glances from her presenting vulva and to his tented trousers.

Would that work? He—well, she wanted his seed so why not give her more. Yet he’s been without the touch of a woman for so long he would likely come within seconds again. But this was a dream. Creatures as incredible and lovely as his “lady” here are products of imagination. And who knows what more horrors he’ll encounter when he wakes? He feels her start to try and stand up, her head turning toward him and her expression so soft and _thankful_ and it’s too much—

“ _You’re so beautiful_ ,” he sobs, when she stands back up on all four legs, only to turn around and embrace him. He’s so starved for his kind of contact, so very tender it was, that he misses the way her doe vulva squeezed his fingers as she came, but still he all but melts into her arms. Both of them fall onto the ground—there’s no snow, where did the snow go—on trembling limbs. His erection is dying down, as the tears suddenly come full force. He ducks his head under her chin, his knees pulling up and his arms clutching at her waist. 

“Oh hush now, what has you so worked up, love?” She coos, her fingers in his hair. He knows he’s disgusting but he can’t help but burrow his head more into her. Her breasts are perfectly sized, and while he nuzzles into her he feels them grow wet, and he remembers with a shock that she’s lactating. Curiously, and just wanting to feel close to her, he presses his cheek against her. She smells so sweet. Shameful yet wanting to know as bad as he needs to breath, the sudden fascination drives him to suck her through the silk. Fuck, he pulls back because she is so very full of milk— Her hands brush his hair, almost encouraging him.

Remembering himself, he shakes his head and meets her eyes.

“Everything,” Rumpelstiltskin admits. “Everything is wrong. Bae is everything to me and now he’s gone.”

“But you said they had taken him away? Do you know if he’s dead?”

The very notion makes him blanch almost violently. Bae dead? He can’t—he couldn’t go on.

“Rumple, look at me,” the goddess pleas, and he obediently lifts his head up from her bosom to meet her gaze. Her ears flap a bit, and it almost makes him smile. Almost. “You have planted your seed in my womb—something I’ve been denied since I came into existence. For that I will protect your son. And you—everything I have I shall give to you.” 

Rumpelstiltskin doesn’t really process what she’s saying, too busy relishing the warm touch of her, her body lighter and more at ease in so long that he can’t remember when. She smells like milk and honey and roses and it’s enough to make him feel faint with it. He never wants to wake up.

“Rumple... Rest now, it’s all going to be okay...”

He’s already asleep before she can finish speaking.

————-

He wakes with a jolt.

Shit, what—

He’s back in his hovel. His same, low bed with every fur he owns laid over him, a fire crackling at full force in the hearth. His ankle hurts in that same way when he’s been on his feet for too long, and there’s a odd sense of frustration within him. Pushing back his covers he sees he’s in all his clothes, cloak too. 

Rumpelstiltskin swallows, feeling his skin sticky in his trousers. A sex dream, he thinks with shock. It’s not that unusual, with him living in such a small space with just his son and no wife, working all day to boot. He doesn’t really think about relieving himself much these days... and with Bae gone—

A fresh bout of crippling depression sweeps over him, and he flops down back into his bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s so fucking sick of being alone—he’s hated and the whole village will probably throw a feast when he kicks the bucket—

Suddenly before he can curl up and wallow in his own self pity, praying with all his might that Baelfire was safe and alive, a strange scent catches his nose. Sitting up a bit he realizes the room is... different.

There’s a pot of food on the table. Getting up to investigate, hating the pain in his ankle, he hobbled over and finds a hearty mushroom and barley soup waiting for him, still hot and thick. Bewildered, he looks up and sees a large basket of spun threat in the basket, awaiting for sell. He hadn’t spun at all in the past week and it’s why he had nothing in the house, no need to buy food because Bae wasn’t here to eat it. 

Rumpelstiltskin, not knowing if he should feel horrified or oddly blessed, looks up at the door. Had someone come in here? But who? No on in the village cared enough for him to do this. 

Yet there, on the floor, were tracks.

Deer tracks.


End file.
